Let’s just be honest, the law does not attract the most savory of professionals. I mean, by and large, lawyers are learned professionals who exist to help other people with their legal problems, and do so as a manner of calling. However, we have a disproportionate number of fucking psychopaths lurking in our profession. I mean…a really fucking disproportionate number of psychopaths. As one attorney told a researcher:
“Deep inside me there’s a serial killer lurking somewhere. But I keep him amused with cocaine, Formula One, booty calls, and coruscating cross-examination.”
Isn’t that just comforting? Just those two sentences shatter the image of the local lawyer as being the stalwart Atticus Finch and makes them more of the Patrick Bateman type of person in your head, doesn’t it? But that’s ridiculous. One man does not a profession speak for. I mean, how many lawyers could really be off their goddamn rockers, right? It’s not like you’re going to go into your local attorney’s office and immediately get chased down the hallway by some 40-ish lawyer with a bad combover wearing a Brooks Brothers suit and wielding a motherfucking axe, right?
….Say, do you like Huey Lewis and the News?
Well let me put on this album and tell you about the blood on the hands of two particular members of our profession in this month’s Freaky Friday.
Ignore the newspapers taped to the floor. I don’t have a dog.
Continue reading “Freaky Friday: Lawyers Are Deadly”
Clients, the final moronic entity that stands between you and happiness. Maybe a settlement offer has come in that’s more than fair and you communicate it to the client, who steadfastly refuses to accept it despite the fact they have no money left and are so far behind on their bills even the bankruptcy court is saying “Damn man…” Maybe it’s you telling the client that great idea they’re having is most definitely illegal and will end in an audit and possible prosecution. Maybe it’s the client who wants to enter into a contract that you advise against, multiple times, and ends up owing the guy down the street, who wasn’t a party to the contract in the first damn place, their life savings, car, house, wife, and dog. No matter the situation, every lawyer is dreadfully aware of the fact that when you tell a client Option A is probably the best choice, there’s even odds the client will invent Option Z out of thin air and doggedly pursue it, ignoring the fact that they’re paying you to help them.
Generally, given my longstanding dislike for clientele, this would be a win-win for me. I get paid, I do my job ethically, and an idiot who had just enough in the way of functioning fucking brain cells to realize they needed a lawyer but not enough to listen gets their comeuppance. Life in those situations is a little slice of heaven, right up until the client tries to sue you or bring a bar complaint saying your advice was wrong and their horrors are directly your fault.
“No, Boozy,” I hear you cry, “You mean clients don’t take responsibility f0r their own stupid ass decisions? Say it ain’t so!”
Okay smartass. I get it. This isn’t exactly a shocking revelation, but let me as you something:
Did you paper the file with a CYA letter? No? Well, have fun defending yourself.
Continue reading “The CYA Letter: A Staple of Stupid Clients”
For the love of god, writing the after-action report for this convention is about as exhausting as attending the convention itself was. But over the past three days, I’ve managed it.
I mean, it makes sense considering this thing was goddamn huge, but a man needs to take a break every now and again. However, much like a furry catching a red-eye flight to make it in time for the dance competition, I must soldier on with little rest and serious questions about the direction my life has taken. So, let’s soldier through to Sunday, and get a little bit of an after-action analysis done so I can stop seeing dancing deer in my mind’s eye and instead go back to legal stuff until the next time I have to address the furry overlords that now control my life.
Continue reading “A Fully Functioning Furry Fiefdom: Anthrocon, Part 3”
Like we talked about on Monday, I went to Anthrocon last week to be amongst the furries. Having arrived on Friday night with no particular plan in place for how things were going to go, Captain Eyebrows and myself found ourselves plied with booze and top hats, directed around a convention center with rooms that double as airplane hangers, and spoken to at length about things that could be expected to happen over the next two days by staff members who, essentially, control the infrastructure of North America. Then we returned to the hotel late at night to get a little bit of rest for what was surely a full day.
So, I mean, since this is going to be a long one, let’s just get right into it.
Continue reading “A Fully Functioning Furry Fiefdom: Anthrocon, Part 2”
We’ve established several times on this blog that I’m not the biggest fan of clients. Like most professionals who have to, in some way, deal with the general public, lawyers are genuinely convinced that the practice of law would be a wonderful thing if, you know, it wasn’t for the hordes that beat down our doors. But, because only law professors and federal judges get to be esoteric about the practice of law, here’s the sad truth of the legal profession: we all have to deal with people that, under any other set of circumstances, we wouldn’t want to touch with someone else’s twenty foot pole.
Now, I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like helping people out. But Jesus fucking Christ can clients become irritating. They get to a point where they’re like yapping little dogs at times, you know, the sort that you shove in a purse and zipped closed, not caring that they’re likely shitting all over your new iPhone just so long as they’re not barking at you for once. Add into this the fact that clients often think they know exactly how you should be, you know, practicing goddamn law, what with their mastery of Google and the degree they have in an entirely unrelated field, and you end up in the worst fucking nightmare that a lawyer can have. The phone never stops ringing, the emails never stop coming in, and the small matter that you took on for a flat fee because it was relatively simple and should have been quick and easy is now a thing that makes you sit bolt upright in bed at night considering how many other career paths you could have fucking followed if only you’d dragged your head out of your ass long enough to heed the warnings of the broken fucking shells of senior attorneys.
But, hey, that’s the life we fucking live, right? In the past I talked about how to identify problem clients and gave you two types: The Junior Lawyer and the Speed Demon, but I realize that the multitude of problem clients extend far fucking beyond just those two particular types of dickweeds, so today let’s take a look at 3 more clients that make lawyers run for the goddamn hills, desperately in search of the Fountain of Scotch that restores our faith in humanity.
Continue reading “Problem Client Identification: 3 More Species of Problem Client”